Oliver Herford was born in Sheffield, England in 1863 and moved with his family to Chicago, Illinois when he was twelve, then onto Boston seven years later. After schooling back in England and then in Ohio, he moved to New York City with his wife Margaret Regan, where he became the writer, illustrator, and poet, known as the American Oscar Wilde.

Kittens large and Kittens small,
Prowling on the Back Yard Wall,
Though your fur be rough and few,
I should like to play with you.
Though you roam the dangerous street,
And have curious things to eat,
Though you sleep in barn or loft,
With no cushions warm and soft,
Though you have to stay out-doors
When it’s cold or when it pours,
Though your fur is all askew–
How I’d like to play with you!

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In Darkest Africa

At evening when the lamp is lit,
The tired Human People sit
And doze, or turn with solemn looks
The speckled pages of their books.

Then I, the Dangerous Kitten, prowl
And in the Shadows softly growl,
And roam about the farthest floor
Where Kitten never trod before.

And, crouching in the jungle damp,
I watch the Human Hunter’s camp,
Ready to spring with fearful roar
As soon as I shall hear them snore.

And then with stealthy tread I crawl
Into the dark and trackless hall,
Where ‘neath the Hat-tree’s shadows deep
Umbrellas fold their wings and sleep.

A cuckoo calls—and to their dens
The People climb like frightened hens,
And I’m alone—and no one cares
In Darkest Africa—down stairs.

_____

I sometimes think the Pussy-Willows grey
Are Angel Kittens who have lost their way,
And every Bulrush on the river bank
A Cat-Tail from some lovely Cat astray.

Quatrain from original Rubaiyat

I sometimes think that never blows so redThe Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;That every Hyacinth the Garden wearsDropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

_____

Strange—is it not?—that of the numbers who
Before me passed this Door of Darkness thro’,
Not one returns thro’ it again, altho’
Ofttimes I’ve waited for an hour or two.

Quatrain from original Rubaiyat

Strange, is it not? That of the myriads whoBefore us pass’d the door of Darkness through,Not one returns to tell us of the Road,Which to discover me must travel too.

_____

‘Tis but a Tent where takes his one Night’s Rest
A Rodent to the Realms of Death address’d
When Cook, arising, looks for him and then—
Baits, and prepares it for another Guest.

Quatrain from original Rubaiyat

‘Tis but a Tent where takes his one day’s restA Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;The Sultan rises, and the dark FerrashStrikes, and prepares it for another Guest.

_____

A moment’s Halt, a momentary Taste
Of Bitter, and amid the Trickling Waste
I wrought strange shapes from Mah to Mahi, yet
I know not what I wrote, nor why they chased.

Quatrain from original Rubaiyat

A Moment’s Halt—a momentary tasteOf Being from the Well amid the Waste—And Lo!—the phantom Caravan has reach’dThe NOTHING it set out from—Oh, make haste!

_____

And fear not lest Existence shut the Door
On You and Me, to open it no more.
The Cream of Life from out your Bowl shall pour
Nine times—ere it lie broken on the floor.

Quatrain from original Rubaiyat

And fear not lest Existence closing yourAccount, and mine, should know the like no more;The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour’dMillions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.